An Edge-walker's Patterns, Pushes, Pulls

I have not been much of a middle of the road walker in terms of living and being. And, since Edmond died, I am most certainly not playing it safe. I am all in more than I ever was. When things get too comfortable, too predictable, I have found ways to change it up, feel alive. There are certainly traditional aspects and stabilizing pillars that are part of my life, but I tend to move toward new edges, new practices and experiences. My curiosity for the novel is insatiable at times. I want to understand from direct experience when I can. Even now, as uncomfortable as it is to leave the familiar patterns behind, emerging patterns call to me. Like my clients, I have at various times shown up requesting support through a rite of passage to enter liminal territory either through the imposed intense grief that comes with loss or the self-initiated change and transformation edge-walkers seek. The invitation to walk along side another as witness is part of the experience I desire. Walking the edge, observing old patterns, some that may not have been apparent but for the new emerging ones, requires presence and some amount of slowness and stillness. This is not a mainstream avenue available in our culture.

Edge-walkers, when we are living in the mythic moment from a liminal mindset, are able to fold ourselves into the tension points, ride the cresting wave as we recognize the dynamic, evolving system in which we are participating and perhaps shifting. We allow instead of resist the subtle or not so subtle change as it is occurring. It is often counter to our conditioning to do so, contrary to our sense of stability and equilibrium. These changed patterns are the natural flow of things. We must override the fear response of the unknown and uncertain to be here on the edge of becoming, be in the flow of nature, trusting we will be held and taking a risk on ourselves.

As much as we would like to fix or find what has been damaged or lost, some of it must be let go of entirely. Some systems or parts of systems of this earthly realm cannot be reclaimed, reattached, or repaired. We must allow our structure to recalibrate around what is here with a knowing that our connection to what is good and true and soulful remains beyond this physical world. That part, the essence of the love connection, lives in us, always, and it always did. It was never outside of us, even though it seemed so. The love we have for others around us is already part of us, emanating from us from the very beginning. This physical world is tricky, filled with magic making us believe that what or who we love or despise is outside of us, separate from who we are. It never really is, though. It is all a projection, a show, a learning we play in from the inside out.

I am not always able to overcome the fear, sometimes it wins for better or worse. Fears and anxiety have been rising up again, usually just before sleep or at 3am or at the start of a day. It is all the transitions, the newness, the coming spring, and the end of a whole year without E. But. And. I will continue to gravitate toward the edge of who I am becoming.

In this moment, in this warped space-time, at least in its relation to linear time, I feel the new patterns emerging within me and see their manifestations around me. I am literally planning and designing new pathways on our land, firmer ground on the rocky limestone. The planter box by the front door that I started in November survived the winter, and the mint, oregano, and pansies spill over the edges while the slender upright irises hold back their blooms a little longer. And, the white twinkle lights that Ellie and I put up in October because we needed Christmas comforts still bring a welcome glow to the entrance to our home. Slow shifts of tiny lights, new plantings, and imagined pavers have emerged. There is an energetic shift that has turned up the dial on the intensity of almost everything. My vision seems to be hyper-focused, my hearing sensitive to the slightest sounds, looking for the place to put my foot next. This hyper-sensitivity is different than what happened initially in the shock of his death and the rawness of everything that made seeing, hearing, feeling, smelling, and tasting painful, as sensory overload. This is another intensified sensory experience that I feel invited into and move toward. My senses are emerging from the covering over that happened because I had to make it through the holidays and the winter. I am settling into my new skin, and it fits my new shape.

It is hard to believe it has been ten and a half months since you died. I feel the density and depth of the wave that has been building for so long pushing me forward as the magnetism of my next shore that is but a blur on the horizon pulls me forward. I do not have a choice but to become part of this momentum that I have cultivated in this liminal place of grieving. And, some part of me wants it to slow down. I do not want to miss any of it, and I am not ready to reach the shore just yet. And, that is not how this works. My participation through my vulnerable expressions and ritual actions have called forth Myth, God, Creator. Together, with all the support of community, family and friends, we have bound spiritual and earthly energies together to create something else. The ceremonies of grieving have their own flow in the sea of change, and that current carries me now. Even when I try to see ahead, into the future, the current reminds me to be where I am. I cannot abandon what I am now part of and what is now part of me, what has been sewn in. If I try to peek or predict with too much certainty and clarity what is two or three steps ahead, waves of nausea come over me asserting themselves. Powerful forces I called upon and joined for support force me out of my anticipation of what the future holds and back into this present slice of time. You are here, too, mixed in and spread out, everywhere all at once because you can be.

If I look back, I see the patterns and their evolution. In the beginning, when you came to me in my dreams, we were both sorting it out, trying to figure it out and find a way to still be connected, to touch each other somehow. You did reach out and touch me more, then. You held me, spoke to me directly, and listened to me intently. After a month or two, you began to push me away or pull away from me, separate yourself more, and this was so painful for me. I image it was for you too. I know it was what had to be so I could stay, so I could finish. You had more strength than I did to ask this of and for both of us. I was unwilling, resisting, and demanding more of you than was possible. Your visits began to fade and become less frequent. It took me some time to find you in the periphery of my dreamscapes, feel your presence without your interference in the happenings. Most recently, I feel you at my side or my back, and I am leading, making the decisions, choosing the way and route, not even asking you to chime in. I understand this is how it must be since I am here and you are there, and some amount of separateness is necessary. I leaned into you for my sense of safety and security in the world. Now I must lean into myself as protector and provider for myself and our family. I still miss you. I will always love you. I do want you to be with me in whatever ways serve us both, serve our children, and serve the greater good. I cannot imagine being without you. And, I am beginning to imagine a life here separate from you.

I am sharing this chapter now with those who desire to read it to let you know I am in the midst of figuring out how I will complete this layer of the spiral that began last spring. Complete is not the right word, but unwind it or pause in a brand new spot hovering in a layer above my past life with Edmond in full sight. There is not closure, but a completion of this first enormous layer of grieving. There is a new relationship to explore our love in an entirely different way. My relationship with him continues, and my life here looks quite different. Finding a new ground under me is beginning to seem possible. Swimming is easier most of the time. The waters are more known. The weeping and aches are part of an inhale or exhale; they are part of the breathing itself. There are more places to stand, larger swaths of solid ground, and the cracks between stepping stones are fewer and narrower.

It will soon be eleven months since Edmond died, and then it will have been a whole year, the anniversary of his death. I do not know exactly how we will honor him and all he has meant and has come to mean in our lives. But I will likely be taking some time off from work, regular activities, and even step away from writing to honor April 4, 2024. I will honor the day I began writing and sharing this journey a year ago on April 8th. The dates also coincide with the eclipse that will completely cover the sun. We live in the direct path of this eclipse, and so it feels like an omen and acknowledgment from the universe. Complete darkness fell over us when Edmond died so suddenly, so unexpectedly, leaving so much unfinished. Then, the new light will come in as the moon and sun separate from each other’s paths. As much as I do not want a separate path from Edmond, and in some ways know we will always be intertwined, I do understand our paths are now quite different. I long for and will keep looking for the portals that allow us to reach through to each other, the easiest and most frequent of which occurs in dreamtime.

I have noticed, too, the patterns in my writing. At first, I wrote daily rather short but intense entries. The pieces have slowly become a bit longer and more time passes between each chapter that I share. It has been an organic unfolding that only becomes a clear pattern upon looking back. Like a fractal pattern, we only know the pattern after it has been lived, after it has left its mark on us, and we have left our mark on the world. The pattern of the chapters mirror the waves of grieving, the arches and curves of the rite of passage and initiation through loss and liminal landscapes.

In late spring, I will be working with an editor to collect my writings and prepare them for print. I will be working on fine tuning and crafting what has been flowing through me into a book. There are some things I have written and feel coming through that are quite personal, more so than what I have already felt called to share. Working these pieces out with a guide, a professional publisher and editor, feels necessary. I want to honor my experience and Edmond, and be true to myself and respectful of my family. Thank you for your support and care as this anniversary approaches.